For a Moment
by Calenlass Greenleaf
Summary: "She defied his reasoning and his will, and he admits that's what he loves about her." [[Hijikata/Chizuru]]


**Title:** For a Moment

**Author:** Cal (Calenlass Greenleaf)

**Disclaimer:** Hakuouki belongs to IF/DF. Character designs belong to Kazuki Yone.

**Rating:** R. Or M, according to AO3 and FF-Net. Definitely not NC-17.

**Spoilers:** Basically everything Hakuouki, particularly Hijikata's route. References to Zuisouroku.

**Timeframe:** Post-main game of Hijikata's route and fast-forwarded a couple weeks, but before the last part of Zuisouroku/Memories of Love/WHATEVER IT'S CALLED they keep on switching names and everything and I can't keep track 8(

**Warnings:** Feelings, romance, sex, swearing (Hijikata's fault). The sex is really just heavily implied; I like my smut that way.

**Pairing:** Hijikata/Chizuru

**Summary:** "She defied his reasoning and his will, and he admits that's what he loves about her."

**A/N:** I haven't written smut in a year. Maybe two. Hopefully I did all right. This fic is also unbetaed so I apologise for any typos beforehand.

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><p><strong><em>For a Moment<em>**

_"Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can't strike them all by ourselves; we need oxygen and a candle to help. In this case, the oxygen for example, would come from the breath of the person you love; the candle would be any kind of food, music, caress, word, or sound that engenders the explosion that lights one of the matches. For a moment we are dazzled by an intense emotion. A pleasant warmth grows within us, fading slowly as time goes by, until a new explosion comes along to revive it. Each person has to discover what will set off those explosions in order to live, since the combustion that occurs when one of them is ignited is what nourishes the soul."_

— Laura Esquivel, _Like Water for Chocolate_

**.**

Old habits die hard. For Hijikata, it's going to sleep at what people considered "decent hours." Anything before midnight was too damn early. Not that there's even much for him to do anymore, but if he tried to sleep earlier, he'd lay awake, listening to the sound of his breathing mingling with that of Chizuru's. Sometimes he would lie as still as possible, and imagine their heartbeats synching up; he once held her wrist and he was pretty sure the pulse was the same. Other times, though, his mind was all together too loud. No more urgent messages in the night, no racing footsteps pounding towards his room…and no one calling him fukuchou, or any of the other titles that he's picked up.

"Hijikata-san."

He looks up from the letter he is penning, and glances at the doorway. He already knows what Chizuru is going to ask, and she already knows his answer.

"One more hour doesn't hurt," he says, matter-of-factly. "I'll sleep when the light burns itself out."

"That's not the point." Even though he's turned away, he can perfectly picture the indignant scrunch of her mouth. He hears her footfalls—bare-footed—as she makes her way across the room. "You can afford more than five hours of sleep. Besides," she stops next to him, her shadow just barely grazing his writing desk. "You were only able to sit up three weeks ago."

He makes a noncommittal sound. "Three weeks is enough. I hate lying down." His body isn't covered in bandages and he's not taking any medicines; he's fine. Healed. As whole as he could be, given the circumstances.

"I still think you can sleep earlier."

"Don't want to." …he hopes that didn't sound petulant. Maybe he should've used 'need.' "You can sleep first."

"And if I want to wait for you?"

Hijikata's brush stills for a mere breathe. "Be my guest." Tempting. Every night, for the past week or so, they've had the same sort of conversation, and usually she goes to bed first after bidding him good night.

He doesn't tell her that when she does, he waits until her breathing evens out and then he would rise, move himself to her side, and watch her sleep. He knows how the flickering lamplight dances over her face, catching on her eyelashes and the sheen of her hair. How she sleeps on her side, one hand curled next to her cheek and the other hand flung out. How he turns out the lights earlier than midnight and slips into the covers next to her. How every time he moves close, she seems to sense him and rolls in his direction so that her forehead presses into his shoulder and he can breathe in the scent of the soap she uses in her hair.

He really ought to tell her he finds it peaceful, watching her sleep. And when he wakes up, it's usually before she does. She always has this beautiful blush on her face, and sometimes, he'd stroke her hair. For their sleeping schedules to match up was rare.

"…I've been thinking about something, Hijikata-san."

"What?" From any other person, such a short answer would've been rude. For him, it means he's at ease with her.

Chizuru kneels next to him. She's clad in off-white, with her hair pulled into a low ponytail. Something about the loose ribbon makes him want to snag it and pull it out, just to see how her hair would fall and cling to her shoulder and frame her cheek. "Your shoulders. They always look tense."

The side of his mouth tips up as he puts his brush down. "Years of leading men and thinking about the future does that to you." He carries most of his tension in his back; figuratively, the Shinsengumi had been his burden for so long that he finds it almost comforting how there's a familiar ache in his back muscles, a stiffness. It never interfered with his swordwork, never prevented him from getting work done. It's like the headache that settles into his temples when Souji's getting on his nerves and he's trying to find a solution to some fickle problem caused by the Bakufu. Pain that comes and goes and is relatively a companion that's mildly irritating.

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Does it bother you?"

"Yes." She frowns at him again. "It'll be bad if you keep it up. It could affect your posture, too."

"I don't think more sleep is going to fix it."

"Neither is more work." Chizuru gestures to the half-written letter.

Sometimes, he can't win. Not that it's a bad thing. He scrunches at the back of his head with a hand, and almost misses his long hair. "But I'm not tired yet, so…what do you have in mind?"

_What suggestions do you have? _

Or—_are you offering to do something about it?_

Those were all bad questions to ask, but he's sure his eyes gave it away; even in this light he could see her blush. At this point, he could probably coax her and they'd be on the bed together, time lost but not wasted. Three nights, one day…and not to mention the number of times he's kissed her.

But he wants to see what she'd do. For so long, he'd been the one to make decisions and all it mattered was that people listened. That life's behind him, and this…this is the present.

Chizuru seems to make up her mind. She shuffles closer, fabric of her yukata rustling against the tatami. "I could do this." She raises her hands, fingers half furled, and places them on his shoulders. Give an experimental squeeze.

"Yes, you could." The only disappointment is that he can't really see her. "Can't say I expected it, but I'm fine with it."

Her giggle is half from nerves, and half from amusement. "Hasn't anyone ever done this for you?" She presses her thumbs down, into the hollow his shoulder blades made when he sits up straight.

"A massage? I don't remember. It costs money." And gods forbid if he asked one of his captains to do it. Can anyone even imagine him asking? Probably Saitou would, but it would be ever-so-awkward because Saitou would worry too much and ask him every two seconds if it hurt. Souji would probably outright refuse and make him hurt _worse_, whereas Shinpachi might break his spine, he couldn't imagine Harada doing such a thing, and Heisuke likely didn't know how to. For a group of men very capable at killing, they were surprisingly incompetent at a lot of other things…

"You…could've asked me," She says softly, and when she shifts herself into a more comfortable position, he can catch the familiar scent of her. His pulse might've just changed pace, slightly.

"You sure you would've been up for that kind of task?" Her fingers squeezing aching muscles, causing a new sort of pain that was refreshing, odd as it sounds.

"I've done it before for my father." Her hands stilled for a second. "He taught me."

Three words that held the expression of many paragraphs. "Chizuru," he begins, but she cuts him off.

"No, this doesn't have anything to do with him." She leans in closer, and he fights back a shiver when her breath ghosts over his neck. "I want to make you feel better."

He's quite glad he had already put his brush down, for at this point he might've gripped it too tightly and snapped it. "You already do." He says, voice strangely thicker than it was minutes ago. Not from arousal, but from the feelings that come with trusting another person.

"Good." Her smile is in that one word.

For a few moments, neither of them says anything. He's slouched slightly forward, legs crossed and hands lying in his lap. Her hands, which always seemed small and delicate, worked their way from his shoulders to his lower back, sometimes making him grit his teeth and other times releasing a tension he's so used to it seems strange that it is gone. While June summers are hardly cold, night tends to always be cooler. But the warmth that Chizuru carries within her seems to be infused into him as well. It's completely different from the times she offered her blood to him and he accepted. No wounds. No guilt. Just warmth he realised he always wanted to have.

When her fingers press to his neck, though, he thinks of something other than warmth and friendliness. Her hands gently apply pressure, not too light to cause ticklish sensations, but neither is it has heavy as it was before when she was persuading his muscles to loosen. When her fingernail grazes his skin, he almost sits up from the comfortable trance she had put him in.

"Chizuru—?" he begins.

"_Shh_." One hand rests his shoulder. "Wait."

Wait? For what? But he settles back, his senses no longer as quieted as before. He's acutely alert of how her hand sneaks into his hairline, fingers curling and tugging, though not enough to hurt. The pads of her fingers spread, their touch slow and exploratory. It soon melds into combing his hair, and now he actually regrets the short length. Some time ago, he recalls, he let her brush his hair and put it up. She had been too nervous; him too focused on his work and neither of them actually truly enjoyed the experience. Unbidden, guiltily, he remembers he has dreamed about it. When he left her back in Sendai, he kept thinking about her and it overlapped in his sleep. She knew the right way to brush hair and put it out without yanking too hard or tangling the strands worse. A women's touch.

But now, as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, he knows this is not a dream. This is reality, one that he didn't think he could have, but she made it real. He's sure the brush of her finger against his ear is not accidental, nor is the way she leans closer until her knees bump into his back.

Now would be a good time to kiss her, wouldn't it? But he ignores that all-knowing voice in his mind. He keeps himself still even though he wants to turn around, clasp his hand against her head, and bring their lips together.

Her fingers in his hair send comfortable sparks down his spine; if she kept at it, he might really fall asleep. So it's unexpected when she tugs at the collar his kimono, loosening it. He tenses up, wants to look at her, but the hand that she has kept on his shoulder presses down, a request for him to not move.

And Hijikata does not resist. Not when fabric slides down one shoulder, and then the other. Not when she embraces him and her chin bumps against the smooth skin of his back. Though he does bring up a hand to grip her arm. It's a silly thing, seeing how she probably can see the effect she has on him, but he wants her to feel it in his hand, the strength in his fingers that hold on to her.

However, when her lips press to one shoulder, his heart gives an odd jolt and something squeezes his gut. And he has to look back at her.

Something about this is too similar to something else. He remembers how, while white-knuckling through pain and a burning need for blood, she had let him loosen her clothes, touch her skin, cut her, and _drink her blood_. No one in their right mind would let another person do that. Physical, intimate contact long before they had made their feelings clear for each other. He had always hated it, when she looked at him with those eyes and offered her sword and her blood. To him. Because she loved him. He hated how he once had said no, and then she held him even as he gasped out his agony and endured it silently with him. He hated every time he did give in, because everything about what he is doing goes against his pride and honour. And he especially hated that time when he was dragged towards death, but she yanked him back when she slit her wrist and literally fed him her blood when he couldn't even hold his head up.

So now, when he looks at her, an apology is forming in that gesture. Sorry for the pain, the awkwardness, violating morals (it didn't matter what Sannan-san had ever said, about rasetsu needing blood being a natural thing)…sorry for doing it to the one he loved. But even as he opens his mouth, she shakes her head and puts her finger against his lips.

"Don't. Please." Something in a voice threatens tears, yet he sees none. "It never bothered me."

His brow furrows and his throat's suddenly too tight. The room suddenly feels smaller, shrinking until it wraps around their bodies. He didn't think he could pull away from her even if he tries.

"Not the point," he mutters. Gods, she had beautiful eyes. When they first met, he thought they had been a little too big for her face. But he's come to love them and the sincerity they hold whenever he looks into them. "I hurt you."

"No, you needed me," she corrects him. The touch of fingers sliding through his hair and down his neck bring out a shiver. "I was happy you needed me. And," she breaks their gaze, blush dusting over cheeks, "it only hurt a little."

He still frowns and makes to answer, but she nudges his head forward again and he relaxes almost imperceptibly when she leans fully against him. "Hijikata-san…" her voice is only just above a whisper. Someday, he needs to tell her she can drop the 'san' because he's no longer her superior. "I want to replace those memories of yours, with something else. Something better."

His fingers on her wrist say everything, and so does the exhale of a breath he does not know he held.

What on earth did he do to deserve this woman?

Maybe it's all right to compare the kisses she gives to his skin as forgiveness. Maybe it's all right to compare the grip of her fingers on his shoulder as comfort. Her hair teases the contours of his back when she bends forward, and he has to keep himself from reaching back to tug it free so that he run his finger through all of it, just as she did with his hair. The light is burning ever lower, but he can see their intermingled shadows dancing across the walls.

And then she brushes his hair away from the nape of his neck, lips pressed right over an area he knows very well. He wants to speak, but cannot, and his heart leaps. The arm she's kept wrapped around him squeezes, and he tightens his hold. At the first touch of teeth grazing sensitive skin, he makes a soft sound. She inhales and he inhales with her. When her tongue traces languid patterns over his neck, he finds himself clasping at his table, lest he grip her arm too hard. His shoulders shift and she adjusts her hold, mouth never leaving his skin.

He is aware of his pulse, pounding in his ears and at the side of his throat. How her lips, softer than anything else he's felt, caress his skin. How she seems to be the only thing holding him up, even as he shudders and his head tips forward. His kimono has slide so far down it seems useless to be wearing, for it traps his arms.

When she alternates between dragging her tongue over his skin and open-mouthed kisses and sucking, he swallows and tries to pick apart the flummoxing emotions staggering through him. Need, longing, love, desire. Were they all the same? Or different? Her arm loosens around him and though he's dismayed at the loss, she makes up for it by trailing the tips of her fingers over his bare shoulders and arms. And then they stroke his collarbone and he forgets how to breathe.

Never did he think a women's touch could do that. He's not unfamiliar with the acting of sleeping with another person, but there's a difference between a tryst that lasts one night and the slow pace of a relationship. When did she figure out his thoughts? When did she pick up on the buried shame of his bloodlust? And how did she know, exactly, how to rewrite pain into something else? There is nothing forceful in her touch, nothing violent, and yet…she's taken him apart. Utterly.

His chest feels tight. Not in the pained sort of way, but rather a keen awareness that pierces him.

"Chizuru." He forces his hands to move, to gently still her movements. To turn and cup her face in his hands. To let her see his soul. He's only let her see a few glimpses of it, for habit keeps in under wraps. At this moment, he pulls down his walls, eyes meeting with hers. His inhales and exhales are erratic and heavy, and his shoulders follow each breathe of air.

"Better?" She asks him, slipping her hands over his.

The chuckle he lets out is shaky and doesn't really sound like himself. "How long have you been wanting to do that?"

When she blushes and stammers, he can feel some control in this situation at least. Leave it to Chizuru to do or say something that sends his mind into the most interesting places, but if he points it out, she blushes to the tips of her ears and tries to find excuses. Seemed like she responds well to straight answers, but any sort of teasing leaves her floundering.

"You don't have to answer." He presses their foreheads together, and hears her catch her breath. "Not unless you want to."

"Well, I didn't know how long. But it felt like a good idea, and you didn't say no…"

When she starts rambling, Hijikata knows now is the right time to cut her off with a kiss. If he's going to be honest, kissing her is one of the best things. He has no idea if she's aware of it, but every time he kisses her, she always swallows and holds herself still for one second before she melts against him. Right now, there's only one thin layer of clothing separating them, and he is very, very aware of how his blood seems to awaken, responding to her closeness.

Her teeth scrape the underside of his top lip and he remembers they need air. Pulling reluctantly away from her, he sits back to watch her lick her flushed lips. Strands of her hair have loosened from her ribbon, and he reaches out and plucks it away so that he can revel in the silky smoothness and purposefully trace the curve of her jawline with his finger. She trembles underneath his touch, and whispers his name. Perhaps he ought to get back into composing haiku. Chizuru should have a full book dedicated to her—perhaps two books. But even that sounds hardly adequate if he adds up every single thing she has done for him.

"Sometimes," he admits as he draws her into an embrace. "I have no idea how to tell you how much I love you." In this space, there is no need for loud proclamations or statements. His voice is low and blanketed in feelings that spill over and take control of his tongue.

She lays her head against the crook of his shoulder and settles in his lap. "When you say things like that, I think I know." The palm of her hand presses against his chest, over where his heart is. He starts. "Hijikata, did it really bother you that much, when you had to drink my blood?"

Damn, she just wouldn't let it go. He closes his eyes and rubs the side of his face. "It was never right." Yes, she made him feel better, but after every time, something would close around his heart and he'd curse himself for being weak. For giving in to something as pathetic as pain. Over and over again. She never complained about it. Insisted that she was fine, that he take her blood.

"Why not?"

"Thought I told you before. What sort of man wants to see the woman he loves in pain?" And it wasn't just about drinking her blood. "Hell, I pointed a sword at you the first time we met. I must've yelled at you every time you even showed your face during those first days. Was that the relationship you wanted?"

"Are you asking me if I have any regrets?"

He shakes his head. "More like what made you choose us. Me." Her hair tickles the side of his neck and he shifts. "You don't say what's on your mind very often, so…" his voice trails off.

Chizuru purses her lips, and for a second, says nothing. When she finally speaks, she starts out slowly. "You used to terrify me. Anytime you raised your voice, I thought my chances of dying went up. But at some point, I think I saw how other people saw you."

"You mean, more than just who I was as the oni-fukuchou?"

"You were always more than that, but sometime it was hard to see past it all," she admits, "but you always carried this strength in you. You worked harder than anyone else. You refused to back down even when other people tried to make the Shinsengumi seem less than it was. You weren't mean. You were just…" Her hand hovers, and then she allows it to fall against his arm. "You were a force and it changed me. I wanted to help you in any way I could. Even if it was just making tea or bringing your meals or sending messages. If I couldn't fight, then at least I didn't want to be a burden to all of you."

She looks up at him, liquid pooling at the corners of her eyes, but they remain there and do not fall. "When you turned rasetsu, I was so worried." He notices she says nothing about it being her fault that he drank the Ochimizu while defending her from Kazama Chikage. "And then…the bloodlust…I was happy when I thought I could be useful to you." She's gone pale and he can see the muscles tense her throat when she swallows. "Someone as strong you shouldn't have to go through that pain. You, Heisuke-kun, Sannan-san, Saitou—none of you deserved that life. Seeing you hurt was the worst thing possible."

Her hand presses over her mouth and nose as a sob chokes her off. He doesn't say anything, but he holds her closer as if his presence can soak into her, offering what comfort he could as he tries to sort through what she's telling him. When she finally composes herself, she continues in a half-whisper. "Hijikata-san…I don't when I stopped being afraid of you and started being afraid for you. But I've always cared for you. Always." It is her turn to cup his face.

"I made up my mind a long time ago." She's flushed a brilliant shade of red, but her voice is steady despite its soft tone. "That I'd stay with you no matter what. That I'd support you in any way possible. You joked once that someone might use me up and throw me away." She looks down. "I…I used to think if it were you, it'd be all right. But it's more than that. I want to help you, and I also want _you._"

Hijikata has no idea what face he's making right now, except that his heart and mind feel too full, too consumed by thoughts of her. "Thought it was supposed to be my job to watch over you, not the other way around." Her face swims in front of his vision, and he wonders if it's tears. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?" He asks hoarsely, gripping her shoulders and lowering his head. Her fingers touch the side of his face.

"I take care of you. I promised everyone that I'd do it."

"So you did." In her, he sees all their old companions. Whatever their fates, they weren't here anymore. The Shinsengumi was no more, yet in this girl—no, woman—she kept the spirit of all of them alive.

To the best of his abilities at the moment, he swallows his emotions so that he can be clear-eyed while he pushes her tears away with his fingers. "And I'm never telling you to leave me." His life is fucked up, and probably it'd end sooner than he hopes. But damn if he won't make the most of it in order to be with her. "I promise."

Her fingers tangle in his kimono and she leans in. "That's all I want." She kisses him then, tongue pressed against his lips and teeth until he opens his mouth and allows her in. Her fingers scrabble hard until they find security around his neck, holding him there, against her.

And Hijikata does not want to be anywhere else. He definitely wants this. He wants her. He wants them falling on their sides, him impatiently tugging at her clothes while she fumbles with his, their lips reluctant to part. Rarely is Chizuru insistent, not unless she's telling him to rest or to take a break…or, when they are together and she refuses to let go of him. Her small frame against his taller one is a perfect fit, like someone meant for them to be together. This is the only time he allows himself to not be gentle. Not in the careless sort of roughness, but rather an urgent, needy pressure at the way he touches her so that she gasps his name, how he runs his hands over her. How he grits his teeth when she licks his collarbone and sways her hips to meet his and he forgets how to even think for a blinding second. At least he doesn't scratch her accidentally with his fingernails. Yes, she heals quickly, but after inflicting wounds on her, he never wants to do it again if he can.

A lesser person would've considered him inhumane and pushed him away after that first time of drinking blood. A smarter person would've executed caution and stayed away. A sane person would've stayed when he left them behind.

She defied his reasoning and his will, and he admits that's what he loves about her.

Their hands clasp together when he finally rolls on top of her, rocking against her body. He likes it best when he can see her eyes, how they flicker and dilate in the oscillating glow of his failing light. But even wanting to see her doesn't keep him away from kissing her, over and over, savouring the taste of desire and sheer love and the light that she is in his life. A hundred, a thousand comparisons—nothing is enough to express her, Yukimura Chizuru.

She still uses his surname and honorific, even when her chest heaves and her gaze is fuzzy and her hair is fanned out from her face. Compared to the rasp in his voice, hers is still lighter and higher, clear like water. He drinks that in, for it satiates an ache in him. Funny how the ache is cause by love, by feelings for her, and yet she is the cure for that same pain.

It's when she pulls herself up and arches into his body that Hijikata realises that if he still felt guilty for hurting her, it would make her sacrifices and love for him meaningless. He hisses her name and makes it a prayer, his hands splayed against her back. If she can live without the burden of regret, then it means he can, too.

"_Chizuru_." Their fingers, damp with sweat, are clasped impossibly tight. The bones in her arm dig into his spine when she clutches him. Is it for support or a plea for more? Did it matter? It matches how he threads his free hand through her hair and buries his nose and loses himself in her scent. Her chin dips against his shoulder as they move together and in three, two, one seconds—they're irrevocably one entity. He closes his eyes and fireworks burst in his sight and his voice probably doesn't even sound like him when he moans but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that he's a shaking mess, because he is in the presence of the only person who's seen him at his worst and best and still loves him. That's a blessing. That's a fucking miracle. He finds himself saying things like "thank you" and "I love you" and it all blurs together in an incoherent clutter, like the way their limbs are tangled and her hair clings to their skin.

But she understands; the hand that touches his cheek and trails down his neck and chest says it all. They catch their breath while he lies down and pulls her on top of him before dragging the blankets over them. Her finger traces a nonsensical pattern into his skin, and he combs her hair as an apology to its messiness. Her skin is pink and yellow in the light, depending on the shadows. Her lips are a dark shade of red. Lips that he has memorised but still cannot get enough of.

In that instant, he thinks of a number of things that he can say, but he dismisses them all. There is no need for overt words, not when her breathing slows and she murmurs that she hopes he'll _please_ consider sleeping early and not just because she distracted him, tells him that she'll massage his shoulders any night…and that she loves him. "Aishiteru" is enough in this situation. He says it to see the way she blushes and smiles, and then she curls up with her ear against his heart and her hand holding his, tight until she falls asleep.

He can't ask for a better life than this. While it's certainly unexpected after years of fighting, failing, prevailing, losing, winning, and people walking in and out of his life, Chizuru is a constant factor. She made her life in his life and he is loath to remove her.

A part of him wants to stay awake until the light goes out, just so he can marvel at her presence for a while longer. Yet her weight pulls him down, her breathing lulling him into a half-conscious state. So the last thing he does is make sure his arm is around her shoulders before he kisses her cheek, and tells her it wasn't his strength, but hers. She's worthy of that admiration.

Hope came in the form of a girl in pink and white, and became a light stayed by his side. And so he sleeps, and dreams, with her hand in his as they walk under a moon.

**_.end._**

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><p><strong>Language Notes:<strong> I use "rasetsu" and "ochimizu" as opposed to "fury" and "water of life" because I never liked the sound of the translations. Personal preference. "Aishiteru" is "I love you," in the most intimate way possible. English sucks.


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